Tales of Darkness & Sin: An Anthology

by Pepper Winters

  “We have invested over twenty-one billion pounds in transportation infrastructure at King’s Cross. Placing the new stadium there is an obvious choice both in economic value and ease. Football spectators can catch the tube to St. Pancras Station and be seated in the new Battle Bridge arena in five minutes.”

  “Of course, it goes without saying that the easiest option is always the wisest,” he snarked, fisting his hands on his hips.

  The robotic tune of a ringtone cut through the rising tension.

  “Excuse me,” Mona said, tucking a springy lock of her black hair behind her ear as was her habit when she tried to hide a smile. “I’ve got to take this. Please, try to be civil. We are talking about archaeology, not the fate of all mankind.”

  Talbot-Ullswater rolled his eyes before offering her a cheeky grin. “Tell that to your prime minister.”

  “He’s your PM too,” she reminded him before closing the door after her.

  “It would do you well to remember that,” I said dryly, standing up because, suddenly, my inactivity felt dangerous. I didn’t want this witty, quick-minded creature to trap me so easily.

  “Oh, trust me,” he said, hands taking flight like twin birds. “I do. Seems a man can’t turn on the telly lately without hearing about the fab PM and his heroic deeds bringing down all sorts of bad guys. Are you a politician or Batman?” He cocked his head, ringed thumb rising to rub at the absurd swell of his lower lip. “Although, I always fancied Batman would be sexy.”

  “And I’m not?” It took years of studied restraint to keep my voice mild.

  Why did I care what this foolish boy thought of me?

  I was the Prime Minister of England. A forty-three-year-old man who glad-handed global political leaders weekly.

  Talbot-Ullswater was just a boy.

  Admittedly, a very pretty boy.

  “I’m fairly easy to please,” he admitted with a rakish grin. “But no, I don’t typically find obstinate, antiquated men attractive.”

  “All this because I won’t give you what you want.” I clucked my tongue as I rounded my desk and leaned against the front, tucking my hands into my trouser pockets so I wouldn’t give in to the insane compulsion to wring his lovely neck. “You’re acting your age, I’m afraid.”

  I felt caught, tangled in the golden snare of his cast net, and as any captured mammal will do, inevitably, I fought against that hold. While no one would have ever called me genial before, the panic of my startling infatuation soured me. My own tongue felt pickled, too acidic in my mouth as I engaged in ceaseless repartee with a youth too silly and too whimsical to reason with.

  “God forbid someone shows passion about something they believe in,” he countered, stalking forward until he was in my space, the tips of his leather trainers against my loafers. “Until this moment, I didn’t know lack of personality could be such a danger to our nation’s history.”

  Heat welled in my belly, bubbling up my chest to sizzle at the edges of my refrigerated heart until it burned. Even my eyes felt warm in my head, my hands aching with it as if they were held too close to a flame.

  It was the heat of madness.

  Of the passion Tobias Talbot-Ullswater had so eloquently decided I was lacking.

  Quite honestly, until that moment, my blood fevered and pulse pounded as I stared into that delicately constructed face, I hadn’t felt it in years.

  Which was why I allowed it to move me to insanity.

  I would prove to the git exactly how emboldened and daring a man such as I could be.

  I would take charge of this preposterous situation and bend it––him––to my will.

  Something changed in his expression as I something morphed in mine, echoing the predatory glint in my eyes with a shocked, thrilling, and fearful excitement in his.

  A moment later, my hand was at the long, swan-like column of his throat, my thumb at his jugular so I could feel the alarmed pulse of my prey.

  At the moment after that, I was kissing him.

  Kissing a man.

  Kissing velvet lips until they parted and then a silken tongue. His mouth was so lush it could have belonged to a woman, but the strong, lean throat under my hand and the rough-edged moan in my mouth said differently.

  I was kissing a man I found utterly ridiculous just to prove I wasn’t so passionless as he claimed.

  Only, as the rigidity of his surprise leeched from his body and he grew supple against me, his soft belly against the hardness pressing insistently at my trousers, I knew the only person I had truly shocked was myself.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tobias Talbot-Ullswater

  His hand on my throat.

  His lips on mine.

  His erection stiff and urgent against my belly.

  Even now, two days later, I was dogged by the memory of that kiss.

  That kiss.

  The prime fucking minister had kissed me in his office. And not just kissed me but kissed me like he wanted me on my knees or bent over his ridiculous antique desk. He kissed me like I was about to know what his cum tasted like.

  And oh, I would have tasted it. All he had to do was ask me.

  Or command me.

  But he didn’t ask or command. Instead, he’d torn away from my mouth, staggering back and looking wholly horrified.

  “Get out,” he’d uttered hoarsely as if I’d been the egregious one. As if I’d been the one to turn a meeting about archaeology into a snogfest. “Get out.”

  I’d been about to protest—I was something of a connoisseur of kisses, and that had been a really good one, the kind of kiss that could land you on your back with your ankles by your ears if you played your cards right—but then he did something so unthinkingly vicious that I’d been robbed of speech.

  He’d swiped at his mouth with his forearm as if trying to scrub away the kiss with the sleeve of his jacket. Trying to scrub away me.

  Feeling as though I’d been shot full of arrows, I turned and left—fled, more like it—wheezing for air the whole way out of his office and out to the curb, where I hailed a cab and panted all the way back to the Ullswater family townhouse in Mayfair.

  He’s a bastard, I’d tried to console myself. A jackass. A pillock with internalized homophobia.

  It didn’t help. I’d still been hurt and horny all that day and the next—and hurt and horny was my least favorite combination of feelings!

  And now it was Sunday, and I was at Ullswater Cottage in Wiltshire to have brunch with my new stepfather and his son. I hated brunching with strangers, and I still hadn’t shagged through all this pent-up frustration gifted to me by James fucking Caldron, and ugh, ugh, ugh—

  “Darling, you must stop fidgeting,” Mum said to me, gesturing with her champagne flute as she leaned against the kitchen counter. “Nigel is going to think I raised a little beastie instead of a son.”

  I took a deep breath, forcing myself to still. I loved Fiona Talbot-Ullswater-Oldershaw—better known as Figgy to her friends (and Mummy to me)—more than anything, and I wanted to make her happy. And if having an exorbitant brunch in the countryside with me and her new husband’s son made her happy, then by Jove, we would have the best brunch the realm had ever seen.

  Be happy. Stop thinking about James Caldron and his kissing. And his giant cock. And how he held you by the throat when he—

  “Nonsense,” I chirped to Mum, interrupting my unproductive train of thought. I flashed her my I love you, Mummy grin while I snagged a miniature quiche off a platter. “Everyone loves me.”

  I said this last with a mouth full of quiche right as Nigel Oldershaw happened to walk into the kitchen. As usual with my new stepfather, I wasn’t given a verbal response, only a single, raised eyebrow. I wasn’t deterred, though—I was very rarely deterred.

  (It’s one of my most excellent traits.)

  I merely swallowed and grinned again. “Isn’t that right, Nigel?”

  He cleared his throat, glancing over at my mum, who was obviously choking dow
n her laughter with another sip of her mimosa. Nigel’s face softened then. It did that a lot around her. As if he’d spent the day in the cold and she’d just given him a hot cup of tea. Like she was the living embodiment of warmth and joy.

  To be honest, I’d had my doubts about him at first—they’d met during a polo match at Cowdray Park and were married within a month—but after meeting him and seeing how lost he was for Mum, I decided he at least had good taste, if nothing else. And for a man in our social strata—nearing his seventieth year at that—he seemed remarkably comfortable with my cheerfully brash brand of pansexuality, which was a pleasant surprise.

  Good taste + not a homophobe = welcome to the family, Step-papa!

  Anyway, after losing my father, Mum deserved to be happy. I was sad that it had taken her so long to meet someone, but now that she’d found him, I was determined to help her make the best possible go of it. Even if they had only known each other two months. Even if he was taciturn to the point of silence. Even if it did mean blended-family brunches and a new stepbrother—whom I still hadn’t met.

  I glanced down at my watch. “Where is our missing brunch guest? What did you say he does for a living, Nigel? Surely whatever it is, he’s free on Sundays?”

  “He’s in government,” Nigel said. “He’s normally very punctual. Perhaps there was some business holding him up...”

  Which is when we heard the knock on the door.

  “Goodness,” Nigel said. “I told him to come right in—”

  “I’ll get it,” I volunteered, trotting through the kitchen and down the short hallway to the front door. My mother renovates Ullswater once every five years it seems, but the front of the cottage remains traditional. A low-thatched roof with a wide wooden door set into a century’s worth of ivy and wisteria.

  I swung the door open and ducked to step out into the cool autumn morning.

  A man waited on the flagged walk just outside, and I had a glimpse of wide shoulders, a narrow waist, and muscular legs—all clad in a crisp tailored suit—as I greeted him.

  “Hullo, new stepbrother!” I exclaimed. “Welcome to Ullswater—”

  He turned, and suddenly, I couldn’t feel my fingers. Or my toes.

  It was the prime minister.

  James Caldron.

  The man who’d rather build a stadium than preserve the past.

  The man who’d kissed me and then shoved me away like I was poison.

  He was my new stepbrother.

  An hour later, I was sitting shell-shocked and sober at the small table outside, watching my mother make small talk with her new son. Her new son, who’d worn a bespoke suit to a damp alfresco brunch in Wiltshire. Her new son, who was the prime fucking minister.

  He hadn’t said a word to me since he’d arrived either. Once he saw my face, he’d blinked once, hard, as though I was a ghost here to haunt him for his past sins, and then he’d simply nodded. Not at me, but almost at himself. Almost like he was saying, This is my unfortunate reality, but I shall persevere.

  And then he’d pushed past me and entered the house, where he proceeded to greet my mother with all the cool civility he was so famous for.

  It became very, very clear that he was pretending we had never met before. That the kiss had never happened.

  That I didn’t know how his tongue felt, silky and searching against mine.

  It became very, very clear that he still felt the way he had when he’d ordered me from his office. Like I was the last person in the whole of Britain he wanted to see. Which was ironic, given that our parents were now married, and we might be seeing rather a lot of each other.

  It was warm for late November, but not so warm that I couldn’t excuse myself on the pretense that I needed to warm up by the Aga for a moment—and so as the brunch was eaten and the cold, stilted conversation was entering a lull, I did excuse myself and hurried inside.

  After a moment, Mum drifted in after me, searching for a fresh bottle of bubbles to take outside.

  “You didn’t tell me Nigel’s son was the prime minister,” I said weakly. “That was a shock.”

  “It must have slipped my mind, darling,” Mum said, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Nigel is quite proud of him, but we do talk about more than just our children. And politics is—well, it’s quite gauche to talk politics, don’t you think?”

  “You’re not debating international fishing privileges, Mummy. His son is the head of government! That would be worth mentioning, I’d think!”

  She gave a one-shouldered shrug, already nudging open the glass bifold door that led to the garden and the brunch table. “Well, you know now, I suppose.”

  “But Nigel’s last name is Oldershaw,” I said, a little desperately. “Not Caldron—”

  “Caldron was James’s mother’s name,” Mum said. “She and Nigel were never married, and she was frightfully modern about that sort of thing. Are you coming back out, or do you need another minute to warm up? I did tell you to wear that Merino jumper of yours. This cashmere one is much too thin.”

  “I need another minute,” I said, forcing a smile and then giving a shiver for good measure. “I’ll be back out soon.”

  She blew me a kiss and then went back outside, and I went back to brooding at the Aga. I didn’t know if I could go back out there and pretend. I didn’t know if I could trust myself not to notice how his shoulders tested the seams of his suit jacket or how his throat moved when he swallowed. I didn’t think I could stop myself from staring into those icy blue eyes or fantasizing about that firm, sculpted mouth.

  I needed to leave. Yes, that was what I needed to do. I’d make my excuses to Mum and then drive home. In fact, I could simply call her after I’d already left and say it was...I don’t know, some kind of archaeological emergency. My firm specialized in rescue archaeology—that is, excavating sites earmarked for commercial development so we could preserve what we could before the inevitable concrete truck of progress rolled in and began pouring—so she was accustomed to me leaving abruptly for work.

  Sorry, Mummy.

  I was in the hallway ready to fetch my bag from my bedroom when I heard a voice behind me. Glacial. Elegant. Precise.

  “There you are.”

  I turned and glared. “Yes. Here I am.”

  He strode toward me. He strode tragically well—the kind of striding that was made for powerful, confident men—and it made me want to slump against the wall. The silver at his temples, the stern brackets around his mouth. The large hands, the leanly muscled frame, the stride—

  Fuck me, but there’s something about an older man. I was used to men my age—just out of college, still rowdy and fumbling—but when confronted with James, so crisp, so contained, it was obvious what I’d been missing. I decided I needed to jump age brackets next time I was on my dating app.

  “We have some things to make clear,” James said, and I shook my head.

  “Uh-huh, Your Right Honorable Excellent Dickhead. Everything’s been made clear enough to me. Which is why I’m leaving.”

  A muscle worked at the side of his jaw. He looked as though he was thinking of taking me over his knee, which was a thought I liked a lot.

  Which was stupid! He hated me! I shouldn’t be turned on by his Suit Daddy vibes!

  I turned, determined to go to my room and get my bag, and that was when I felt his hand on my arm. But instead of pulling me close, he pushed me against the wall.

  My chest heaved against the plaster...and even more so when he stepped behind me. Trapping me. I could feel the beat of his heart against my back, and against the curve of my arse, I could feel—oh. Oh, fuck. That was his penis—thick and hard as granite, digging right into the muscles of my backside.

  He was hard for me, and knowing that made blood rush straight to my cock. So fast it made me dizzy.

  “It’s a bad idea to walk away from me, Tobias,” James said. He was taller than me, just a little, so he had to angle his face down to murmur in my ear. “A very bad idea
.”

  “You wanted me gone two days ago.”

  “Things have changed.”

  “Like the fact we are now stepbrothers?”

  He stiffened against me. “We are no such thing,” he growled.

  “Oh, come on,” I said, half-irritated, half-too-horny-to-care. “You don’t want to play stepbrothers with me? While Mummy and Daddy are outside and they can’t see? Maybe you want to break in your new toy. Maybe you want a taste before the holidays when we’ll be staying in the same house, and you can use me every night. Maybe you’re just so fucking hard that you don’t care who gets it, and so it’s going to be me. You’re going to pull down my trousers right here and use me until you feel better, and then send me back outside dripping. Is that it?”

  His hand slid to my throat as I spoke. His thick organ throbbed against me.

  “You’re goading me,” said James.

  “And you were cruel to me. Fair’s fair.”

  “You’re just a boy. You don’t know what cruel is.”

  I licked my lips and whispered, “Does that mean you want to show me?”

  His hand tightened on my throat. His exhale was ragged in my ear.

  But he didn’t answer.

  I took his hand—the one currently braced by my shoulder—and slid it down my stomach to where my erection strained against the placket of my tight magenta trousers. The inhale he gave as his fingers closed around me would haunt my wanking dreams for years.

  “You want this?” I murmured, pressing back against him hard enough to make him gasp again. “Then take it, Prime Minister. Take anything you like.”

  “A dangerous invitation, Tobias,” answered James.

  “That’s the fun kind.”

  He hesitated. I could feel that hesitation everywhere—in the hand wrapped around my shaft, in the hand wrapped around my throat, in his very breath…

  And then I viscerally remembered what it felt like to have him push me away. What it felt like to watch him wipe his mouth clean of our kiss.